


Tattoos

by LaBelleetlaloup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magical Realism, Magical Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelleetlaloup/pseuds/LaBelleetlaloup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock could not deduce everything about a person from the way they took their tea or the state of their pants. But contrary to popular belief, he liked discovering those things more than something easy like short white hairs on trousers meant small white dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tattoos

There were some things that even the great Sherlock Holmes could not deduce from the state of your pants or the angle at which you hold your tea mug. His expression upon discovering these things was always amusing: a mix of consternation, frustration and surprised delight. John also delighted in those moments, when something mundane was hidden from the masterful detective. Sherlock would never have guessed, though, from John’s genuine amusement, that John himself had managed to conceal something rather large, if unrelated to a case, from him.

Sherlock had always put off John’s layers and constant coverings from neck to toe as a sort of pseudo-armor or a result of British repression. He never bothered to look deeper, even though he knew that John’s reasons often strayed from the norm. Lestrade thought it was just John’s bland wardrobe, as did most of the world. However, there were a few reasons that he managed to keep a steady string of dates in spite of Sherlock’s interfering.

Sarah had left soon after finding out, but Anna and Jeanette had stayed, for a while at least.

“John!” Sherlock interrupted John’s musings. John pulled on a jumper over the long-sleeve undershirt he was wearing before padding downstairs in his sock feet. Sherlock was pacing. Lestrade was hovering anxiously, waiting.

“I’ll get my coat, then?” John announced, just a hint of a lilt to the statement to allow Sherlock to contradict him.

“Hurry up!” Sherlock snapped; grabbing the coat himself as John tugged his shoes on. Sherlock slid the coat on John’s shoulders and John stuck his arms through as he was propelled through the door and down the stairs. Lestrade followed, amused, but still worried. It turned out to be a crime of passion by a bullying victim, not the beginnings of a serial killer, even though there were five victims laid out on the floor of the scene. Sherlock had been ecstatic about the possibility of a female serial killer before he deduced the motive. However, something stumped Sherlock.

“This girl was teased relentlessly about something, but looks normal enough to not be questioned leaving a party with five beautiful women,” he mused, “What’s the something?”

“Well, it can’t be any sort of visible mutilation,” John answered the rhetorical question anyway. “It could have been that she’s just plain. Girls are vicious.” At that moment, the suspect walked into the interrogation room that they were looking into from behind mirrored glass. She was tall and willowy, like her victims, and she showed no signs of an imminent breakdown behind her pretty features. John choked on air. “Oh my God,” he whispered.

“Get ahold of yourself,” Sherlock snapped, “She’s a murderer, hardly your type anyway. She’s taller than you.”

“She’s bloody gorgeous,” John retorted, “No matter if you think my type is boring anyway. And she’s the same type as Jeanette.”

“Jeanette?” Sherlock was lost.

“The teacher at Christmas,” John rolled his eyes. Sherlock nodded. He deleted the names of John’s dates rather quickly. Many of them defaulted to Mary or Sarah in his head. It was awkward to explain.

“What would she have been teased about?” Sherlock demanded petulantly. He was almost pouting. John caught sight of something and left him standing there to walk into the interrogation room.

“Afternoon, Miss,” John turned on his charming smile, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” She turned to him with a raised eyebrow. John pushed the edge of her sleeve up to expose the edges of a tattoo.

“Oh,” she laughed, rolling her sleeves up. Her arms were covered in tattoos: a flower garden planted on her skin.

“How long have you been inking?” John asked, eyeing the marks with interest.

“Almost a decade,” she replied easily, “My mother threw me out for the first one. It was so tame, too.” She looked wistful.

John guessed, “A lily on your shoulder blade?”

“How did you know?” she replied with a grin.

“Your vines spell out Lily, and you don’t seem the type to start with a heart on your bum,” John replied, “I took an educated guess.”

“What was yours?” she replied, looking impressed, “Or should I guess?”

“You can try to guess,” John offered, doubting she would.

“Something on your left bicep, maybe to do with where you went to university,” she guessed wildly.

“No,” John chuckled, “Though I do have one of those.” Sherlock was spluttering in the observation room. Lestrade was confused as well. “My first was the beginning of the wings on my back.”

“Wings?” her whole face lit up, “Can I see them? I’ve been looking for a decent sketch for ages.” John chuckled and nodded. He peeled off his jumper and undershirt, revealing a myriad of tattoos over well-toned muscles. He turned around. There was a pair of darkly shadowed angel wings covering his whole back. A wolf, with snout upturned in a howl, sat in the middle, obscuring the inside edges. Her hands reached out and traced the edges, reverently. His muscles rippled gently under her touch.

“Like them?” John asked, “I’ve still got the sketch I drew for them.”

“They’re beautiful,” she nodded, “But I’ve got too much on my back already for something this size.” John shrugged, turning back around to face her. He had the RAMC logo on one side, under a tribal tattoo that covered most of his right shoulder and arm. A pair of interlocked hearts sat just below his collarbone, his scar mottling the quote beside it. A map of Kandahar was trapped under a map of London down his left side, spreading across his chest and stomach. His left arm had just a siren, inked in painstaking detail. She grabbed for that arm with a gasp of delight.

“A woman back in Kandahar,” John answered the unspoken question. “I had been watching her for weeks. A fellow soldier took my interest for suspicion and I was saving her from him when the attack came that invalided me home.”

“That is beautiful,” she replied, “How long have you been inking?”

“God, almost fifteen years now,” John chuckled, “I’m getting old.” She covered his hand with hers.

“You aren’t old,” she replied with a chuckle, turning over his arm and exposing a long string of numbers inked on his wrist. She jumped back as if burned. John’s jaw tightened but he knew what she saw.

“Army tag numbers,” John muttered, “Fallen friends.” It was mostly true. That tattoo was his most recalcitrant.

“But, for a second, I could have sworn…” she was eyeing him uneasily now, “Never mind, it must have been a trick of the light.” Her easy manner was obviously forced now. 

Sherlock strode in.

“Could have sworn it was the birthdates of the women you killed the day before yesterday?” he suggested.

“No,” the girl shook her head, “Of course not. That’s ridiculous.” She forgot to protest her innocence in her shock. John pulled his shirt and jumper back on.

“We’re having a chat later,” Sherlock mouthed to John as he went to leave. John said nothing. Lestrade merely stared at him in mute shock as he reached the interrogation room.

“I didn’t kill anyone!” she protested too late.

The case was quickly wrapped up. Sherlock locked John in the flat for three days afterwards, learning all his tattoos by heart, gorging himself on the new information. It would have taken only a few hours, but Sherlock noticed their tendency to move and shift and that kept him occupied for a long while. The siren smirked and smiled and tossed her head and waved. The army tag numbers often rearranged into a code, announcing his thoughts to any who cared to read them. The wolf would shift position as he bayed. The wings stretched and constricted, flexing around his muscles. The quote beside the interlocked hearts rearranged itself around the scar or through it depending on John’s comfort level. While John was sleeping, Sherlock memorized the words: If I had to choose between breathing and loving you, I would use my last breath to say I love you. The maps self-updated and continuously stretched their boundaries. Only the two hearts did not change. John did not say why and Sherlock, for once, did not press. He had enough new information anyway.


End file.
